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Pak
I'm in a very small, confining space. It's about the size of a refrigerator, it's dark, cold, and I feel weightless. It's like being in a coffin that someone has pushed off the top of a building ... although as I wake up, I remember where I am ... I'm in a re-entry capsule, orbiting Earth, and I have to fire the retros some time in the next five minutes or I'll be stuck up here until my air runs out. The only instrumentation I have is a digital watch, a pocket calculator, and two controls: one that will ignite the chemical retrorocket (single), and another that will inflate the balloon-parachute arrangement, hopefully (we didn't have the chance to test it). It's enough, though (and I don't really need the calculator; my mind seems to be running like an engine with no load on it). I press the tiny button on the side of the watch, clutched in my hand (which seems a lot bigger than it used to be – the finger joints feel swollen ... the knuckles feel like the exaggerated ridges of a pair of brass knucks), the faint light comes on, it's 6:53:04 ... I have to guess when the retrorocket will be pointing in the right direction, as the capsule is spinning at a rate of 2.2 revolutions per minute ... there will be a twelve second window in which I can fire the retros with a degree of success. A fraction of a second either way, and I will either burn up from too steep a re-entry angle or else I will skip off the upper atmosphere and drift until I run out of air. I can't help thinking that a window would have been nice; we just didn't have time. I check the time again, 6:53:22 ... in the flat glass face of the watch, I catch a faint reflection of my face... swollen skull sloping back from two tiny red eyes, perched above a beak formed by the fusion of my lips and gums. I open my mouth, close it, making a phhhh-Pak sound. Okay, so I'm not human. It doesn't bother me. What does bother me is that I'm not sure when this 12-second window is supposed to arrive... I try to stretch my legs ... there isn't room, I'm stuck in this half-crouching cramped position, forehead pressed against the front, my spine pressed painfully into the back. I close my eyes, and the illusion of falling re-asserts itself ... the tiny watch suddenly starts beeping. 6:54:00. I wrench the retrorocket control all the way over, there is a faint hiss and a slight feeling of acceleration – towards my back. The retro must be mounted on the front. I can't remember if I should keep still, or if my moving about will upset the centre of gravity. I can't remember which end the parachute is mounted in, I can't remember when I should open it – if I wait too long, it will simply burn, and if I release it too soon, I will descend too slowly and run out of air. I can't help thinking that I should know all of these things, and my own apparent lack of competence scares me. Abruptly, the hissing stops. And I wait. |
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